Dawn Dryad

• Sienna Mccarthy-gray, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2017

Once upon a time when the wind was from the east and the moon made her whimsical way up the hills to take her throne in the clouds, a young girl sat contentedly in her corner of the barn. It was an old place, in more than measure of time. It was as if life itself was tired, a twilight time ready to lay down her head on the pillow of a long awaited night.
But the girl was the spitting image of dawn, opposite to the darkness of night with her bright, golden hair and eyes alight with the joy of morning. She was one of those rare creatures who seem capable of doing anything they set their minds to and certainly, whatever task she had set for herself this morning was obviously going well.
She was surrounded on all sides by the most unusual cohort, all of which was listening as attentively as any audience could to the joyous, sing-song voice of the tiny maiden. The audience, built from the fur and feathers of the farm, the wild forest dwellers with the scales and skin of the untamed, the garden lizards and the bugs and beetles of the earth, all listened and watched this strange and beautiful creature whose fairy-like appearance and manner were each as enchanting as the last. The story she was telling made very little sense and even the occasional scrap of real knowledge that went astray inside it was so woven and hidden in the magic of the child’s voice that few were able to discern them. But the story itself was not the vessel for the magic. The child’s voice, which spun the tale, quiet and lilting though it may seem, was the culprit. Somehow, with the ignorant skill of the young, she had woven a spell as effective as hypnotism over the creatures around her.
Whether the birds of the sky or the beasts of the farm had fallen first, the spell had captivated them alike. Predator and prey sat in total harmony under the reign of their diminutive fledgling queen.
The child, it seemed, was completely unaware of her sovereignty. She sat in blissful innocence while she sang quietly to herself. Presently, she rose and lifted her arms up to the sky, throwing her head back. Her tiny figure bent with the energy of this gesture and a golden river cascaded down her back, reaching her knees. Then she lowered her arms so that she seemed to encompass them all and let out a delighted, carefree laugh.
There was a gentle flurry of pleasure from the audience as the sound reached their ears. The bell-like tone was the sound of pure, unfailing joy in life. It was the most exquisite music in the world: the laugh of a child.
With nought but her voice and a dewdrop of joy, the child had chased away all remnant of night and welcomed in the day.